


When Life Throws Wrenches

by Cyndi



Series: Whouffaldi Forever [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Autism, Autism Acceptance, Dancing, Demisexual Twelfth Doctor, Demisexual Twelve, Erotica, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodiversity, PTSD, Resolution, Romance, Sexual Tension, actuallyautistic, autistic 12th Doctor, autistic Twelfth Doctor, autistic Twelve, autistic headcanon, autistic!12th Doctor, autistic!Twelfth Doctor, autistic!Twelve, behavior is communication, demisexual 12th Doctor, demisexual!12th Doctor, demisexual!Twelfth Doctor, demisexual!Twelve, emetophobes beware, sick!fic, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyndi/pseuds/Cyndi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor accepts Clara’s invitation to take him out on an actual date, but an unexpected illness rears its ugly head and wrecks their plans. Or does it? (Autistic!12th Doctor, takes place after my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/345962">Whouffaldi Triad</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Life Throws Wrenches

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: This is set after the events of my Whouffaldi Triad series and takes place shortly after the episode The Zygon Inversion.  
> * * * WARNING: There is a barf scene, so emetophobes beware.  
> MOOD MUSIC: You’ll know when to turn this on...trust me. ;) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiiyq2xrSI0>
> 
> The unpleasant internal stimuli from being sick adds to the everyday external stimuli an autistic person deals with. Sometimes it gets extremely debilitating, like a train wreck happening inside your brain. You can’t do anything except hang on until it’s over.

_“I fought in a bigger war than you will ever know. I did worse things than you could ever imagine. And when I close my eyes I hear more screams than anyone could ever be able to count! And do you know what you do with all that pain? Shall I tell you where you put it? You hold it tight till it burns your hand, and you say this. No one else will ever have to live like this. No one else will have to feel this pain. Not on my watch!”_  --The Doctor

.o

.o

“...so how about we switch it up a little?” Clara’s words crackled faintly through the Doctor’s cell phone earpiece. She was on day two of a cold, and her stuffy nose made her voice sound like she had cotton in her nostrils, “What if I took you out somewhere on Earth?”

“Mm, quite a change from the usual,” said the Doctor. He settled back in his easy chair aboard the TARDIS and closed his eyes. Tiredness lingered in his bones even though he just woke from a three-hour catnap. “Clara, are you asking me out on official date?”

“Mmhmm. You caught me.”

He chuckled and slouched. “And what did you have in mind for our date?”

“A new restaurant opened a block from my flat  _and_  I just bought the perfect little black dress to wear. How about dinner? Now, before you panic, I checked the menu online. It has a lot of your ‘safe’ foods.”

Good thing she said that, because he nearly panicked. Gagging on food in public wasn’t his idea of fun. Sometimes he hated his texture sensitivities. There were many foods he enjoyed the taste of, yet couldn’t eat because they felt awful in his mouth.

How on Earth did Clara put up with his food texture issues? If not for her he would eat an extremely limited diet and accept the ugly health effects that came with it. But she helped him love yogurt by adding more fruit to it. Cookies n’ Cream ice cream became a favorite again with more Oreo cookies sprinkled in. And potato salad! Obnoxious amounts of celery got it past his gag reflex without a problem.

He handled chunky textures fantastically if the chunkiness had a regularity to it. Crumbly things became tolerable with the right dips or sauces. Foods he never thought he could comfortably eat in this incarnation were accessible again all thanks to Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara and her ridiculous amounts of patience.

He teased her, “Are you sure you’re not using me as an excuse to wear your new little black dress?”

“If I wanted to wear it just to wear it, I would wear it,” Clara kidded back. She sneezed, groaned and cleared her throat, “I should be over this cold by next week. So, how about Friday, the twelfth, at six-thirty?”

“I think I can work you in,” the Doctor paused to rub at the inner corners of his eyes. Now his throat felt raw, as if he swallowed sandpaper. “Friday, the twelfth, at six thirty? Fine. It’s a date.” 

“Are you all right?” Clara badly imitated his Scottish brogue to say, “Your accent is thicker than usual.”

“I’ve only been awake for a grand total of ten minutes.” He spoke truthfully because he couldn’t formulate a witty comeback fast enough. At hearing Clara cough on the other end, he added, “Stop talking before you cough up your lungs!”

“I’m about to hang up anyhow. Stay away from my flat until I’m over this. You don’t want it.” She coughed again, “See you soon.”

The Doctor’s hearts clenched at the smile in Clara’s voice as she bid him farewell. He slid his phone back into his pocket and moved to stand. It happened slowly, like his brain had to download the locations of his limbs and remember how to move them. Getting up was easy once he did that.

Purple spots danced before his eyes like TV static. The blood roared in his ears. He leaned on the railing until it passed.

 _It’s been awhile since i ate or drank. Dinner will do me good_. 

But, to be safe, the Doctor staggered into the kitchen for a tall glass of cold water. It helped his throat hurt less. Sort of.

Changing clothes was something akin to the clown act in a three-ring circus. If Clara wore a little black dress then that meant he needed to dress accordingly. He decided on the suit he wore when he took her aboard the Orient Express-- albeit he skipped the ribbon necktie.

But why, oh why, did shirts use so many buttons? The Doctor swore his fingers forgot how buttons worked. He fumbled over them like he never pushed a button through a buttonhole in his life. Fighting a bow tie wasn’t an option, so he rustled around in the wardrobe until he found a bootlace tie. He slipped the braided leather string under his collar and tightened the black diamond-shaped slider until it fit snugly in the inverted triangle created by his shirt collar. Silver aglets gave it a pop of color and shine without being  _too_  flashy.

 _Why am I nervous over a date? It’s a few hours of pretending to be human in public. It’ll be like the otters. Easy!_  

The thought left the Doctor laughing at himself in the mirror while he combed his hair into something resembling neatness. His reflection stared back-- pale, drawn and wrinkled. An expected unpleasantness. Bathroom lights made everybody’s face look horrible.

Dizziness overtook him when he turned to leave the bathroom. He swore his head pulsated while he slipped his No Gloom Shroom back onto his wrist and placed his very necessary pocket chalk into the inner breast pocket of his sleek jacket.

Every step down the staircase in the console room felt like miles. The hexagonal control console saved him from a nasty fall. One moment he swore he heard everything in the universe, and in the next all sound seemed far away. Sometimes it vibrated unpleasantly in his fingertips and feet. Oh, he hated that!

 _Okay, you’re ill_ , the Doctor told himself simply,  _You live in a time machine. You can arrive for your date with Clara at any time and she won’t know the difference. But..._  He stared straight ahead, glazed eyes drooping,  _I need her_...

A frown creased his brow. He opened his eyes all the way, straightened and inhaled. Maybe he could stick this date out. Maybe, maybe, maybe!

Typing the proper Epsilon coordinates that wore themselves familiar in his mind took great effort. His fingers reacted sluggishly to everything. He even struggled with the locking mechanism to trigger dematerialization. Worst thirty seconds of his life. Bathing in ice water seemed more pleasant than the tug of the time vortex, and usually he loved the trip. 

Hearing the cloister bell sounded like mercy. A glance at the monitor confirmed a successful landing.

He’d arrived in the corner of Clara’s bedroom exactly fifteen minutes before she was due to arrive home from work. And in fifteen minutes he fully expected to see her bustle in like a tornado.

His first sight upon exiting the TARDIS was Clara’s new dress hanging on her closet door. Black velour, likely mid-thigh length with long sleeves and an open back. He never understood why women liked clothing with holes in strange places. Didn’t they get cold?

The Doctor sat on the corner of Clara’s bed nearest the door. Once again his ears switched rapidly between hearing all the traffic for miles and almost nothing at all. He hugged himself because the room felt colder than Antarctica. Shivering began as the clicks of keys in the lock alerted his ears. Not little shivers, either. Violent ones. They overtook his entire body in prickly waves. Dismay clutched at his throat. He never shivered unless he was significantly ill.

Clara’s door creaked open and thumped shut. Her keys clanged onto her kitchen table. She rushed along like the expected tornado of horses and her insufferably loud shoes clacked on the floor. How did hear herself think with all that noise?

Unable to stand it anymore, the Doctor called out, “For goodness sake, Clara, are those shoes or weapons?”

“Both!” Clara replied without missing a beat, “You’re early!”

He grinned, rubbing his hands together, “You’re supposed to keep me waiting, not the other way around.”

More shivering, now with the added bonus of a dull ache in all his joints. Clara said something and it went through his brain completely unprocessed. Her voice sounded closer, too. A lot closer. And suddenly she stood in the bedroom doorway, her brown eyes growing huge when they fixed into him.

“Doctor,” she said again. “You’re white as a sheet!”

The Doctor cringed at his own terrible impression. Him, dressed up in a nice suit, hunched over on her bed in fits of shivers. He squinted as the brightness of the hall light stabbed into his eyeballs.

“Yes. I-I think...I think I’m ill, Clara.”

Clara dropped her shoes and rushed to him. She was all up in his face, asking rapid fire questions faster than he could process them. Before he knew it she had him lying back properly on her bed. She deftly loosened his bootlace tie enough to remove it and did the same with his boots.

“Wait, I dressed for our date. Clara, you’re spoiling my--”

“Hush. You’re in no condition to go out anywhere. The date can wait.”

It struck him that her voice had faint crackles in it from her recent cold. He started to feel unwell right around the time she began actively sneezing and shedding enough mucus to gross out an army. Exactly the right incubation period for--

Now it made sense!

“Clara, do I have red spots on my tongue?” He stuck his tongue out.

Clara squinted, “Yeah, like freckles. I had the same thing for a couple days. Oh, no, I think I gave you my cold anyway!”

“No, no, we were both infected at the same time. Heh, I came here after our phone call last week, so the incubation period is about right.” The Doctor draped his forearm over his eyes. “It’s the Zygon flu. The virus literally forms in the air around Zygon pods. It must be too alien to affect humans beyond giving you a nasty cold.”

“’Nasty’ is the nicest thing you can say about it,” said Clara with a frown. She pressed her cool palm to his aching brow and touched the back of that same hand against his cheek. “You feel warm. Your skin’s never this warm.”

He wiggled the sonic sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. They took his temperature.

“Twenty-five Celsius. Low grade fever. Nothing to be concerned about. Anything above forty is dangerous and mine never goes that high.”

“What’s normal for you?”

“Fifteen. I’m--” He realized his pupils were sluggish when the hall light stabbed his eyeballs with the fury of a supernova. “Turn that hall light off! It’s too bright.”

Clara bustled away from the bed. The hall light shut off, leaving him in the diffuse glow coming through the window. Judging by the smell it was going to rain soon. 

Then he heard Clara burst into the TARDIS, yet in his jangled state he couldn’t be bothered lifting his head to see why. Just the creaking alone went through his bones like lightning.

A cell phone rang, Its owner answered. They stated the street they were on. Four blocks from Clara’s flat, yet to the Doctor the conversation happened right inside the room. It receded until his own breathing seemed miles away. He couldn’t be sure of his own body positioning until another wave of shivers forced him to curl up on his right side.

Quiet squeaking noises indicated Clara had returned. “Found this under that colorful coat in your wardrobe. Might as well be comfortable. You don’t want to wrinkle up your suit, do you?”

He forced his head up to look. Oh. A gray full-length nightshirt he hadn’t worn since-- geez, he still lived on Gallifrey the last time he wore that. Silver snaps ran down the entire front, but only the first twelve were undone. He’d been looking for that thing for ages.

Sitting up required intense effort. Getting his coat off took full concentration or else his limbs didn’t move in the right order. And his damnable fingers refused to obey his brain to unbutton his dress shirt. Never mind the waistcoat or sleeve cuffs. He felt his face go red with embarrassment-- or was it the fever? 

A deep breath and some muttering later and he finally got one button undone.

“Do you need help?” asked Clara.

The Doctor glanced up at her with unfocused eyes. He tried, perhaps defiantly, to push the next button through the buttonhole, but it felt something akin to using somebody else’s hands to do it.

“This is why I don’t let people see me ill,” he grumbled.

“Ugh,  _men_ ,” Clara batted his hands away from his shirt and began gently unbuttoning it. She unfastened his waistcoat, finished off his shirt and undid the button for his trousers in a few enviable twists of her fingers. Now it was his turn to swat her hands away and unzip his fly himself.

“Here, hold that,” And she popped the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom into his mouth while she loosened his sleeve cuffs. “When was the last time someone took care of you while you were sick?”

More exposed skin meant feeling colder. A violent shudder jiggled all of his muscles. He dreaded the moment between his clothes coming off and the nightshirt going on.

“I don’t remember,” the Doctor mumbled around his No Gloom ’Shroom. He took the chalk out of his jacket pocket and set it on the bed beside him.

“Then it’s been too long.”

Clara slipped her hands into the shoulders of his unbuttoned white shirt and slid it off along with his waistcoat. Every millimeter of naked flesh let more icy air attack him. He went rigid, fighting the shivers.

“I know, I know,” She pulled the nightshirt over his head and let him manage the sleeves and snaps by himself.

Heavy, luxuriously soft fabric-- all the wonderfulness of fleece, flannel and cotton in one material.

“Basil?” Clara paused to gently touch the circular Gallifreyan embroidery on the deep chest pocket. The TARDIS must have translated it for her.

“My name,” His answer slipped out before he fully processed what he was saying, “Not my  _full_  name! It’s a...a...a nickname...” He rubbed his forehead, angry at himself for giving that information so easily. “I suppose it’s my equivalent of Michelangelo saying, ‘call me Mikey!’ Don’t call him that, by the way, he hates it. Nice Biblical fanart, that fellow...would’ve been a hit on Tumblr or Deviantart.”

“You met Michelangelo?” 

“Where do you think he got the paint for the Sistine chapel?”

Clara chortled and smoothed the fabric down on his shoulders. “Basil. I like it, it suits you.”

“It’s not the name I chose, Clara. I am the Doctor. The Doctor is who I am. Basil is just the label on a soup can so you can tell chicken noodle apart from minestrone. I’m not the can, I’m the soup inside. Er...” A sigh escaped his nose because that didn’t make any sense to him.

“I understand,  _Doctor_.” She emphasized his chosen name when she cupped his cheeks in her palms.

He focused his tired, drooping eyes on hers in a silent expression of gratitude. She leaned forward, letting their foreheads momentarily touch. Her hands slipped off his face again once she withdrew.

“So what’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Michelangelo.”

“He’s a very messy person, and somewhat grouchy.”

“Mm, like someone I know.”

“I’m not  _messy_.” He arched an eyebrow at that jab. “But he was very amused when I mentioned someone named a turtle after him.”

Clara crossed her arms and shook her head. “You seriously--”

“Cowabunga, dude.” The Doctor waggled his eyebrows and slid his No Gloom ‘Shroom onto his wrist. His baggy nightshirt sleeve hid it perfectly. 

He stood long enough to let his trousers and the length of the nightshirt fall to the floor. Clara whisked the black trousers away before he could reach for them.

The chalk he placed on the bed wasn’t there. He could only see the empty, vibrating space it belonged in. His expression contorted, “My chalk...Clara?”

“I put it on the nightstand,” Clara muffled from inside her closet. 

Oh, over there. He grasped the brown box of white chalk and dropped it in his nightshirt’s pocket. Having its reassuring weight and scent nearby put some order into the chaos of sickness.

A metal hanger crashed to the floor. Might as well be firecrackers with the racket they made.

Clara said, “Don’t forget to take your socks off, too. I can tell they’re dressy.” 

“How?”

“No holes.”

“Do you always go around noticing peoples’ socks?”

“Nope, just yours because I wash them when I find them mixed into mine.”

She wrangled hangers for his jacket, waistcoat, trousers and shirt and hung them up next to her little black dress. A stark reminder of the date they were supposed to be on right now.

Why, of all times, did Zygons have to ruin his day long after he finished dealing with them? Clara would develop immunity to Zygon flu once she fully recovered. Time Lords weren’t so lucky. He stayed immune for the duration of an incarnation. Regeneration had the annoying habit of changing his immune system just enough that it didn’t always recognize pathogens it fought before.

Something else nagged at the Doctor’s awareness. Nightshirts weren’t proper with simple boxers. Long johns underneath or nothing, and he didn’t have any long johns. He grumbled and stood up again to remove his boxers. This pair had happy faces stamped on a black background. Every smiling yellow visage mocked him.

“Nice,” Clara said upon seeing him step out of the boxers.

“I have worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Getting his socks off was easy. Standing on the floor afterward? Not so much. Clara’s cold floor seared his feet so badly he gasped and scrambled onto the bed to escape it. Moving so fast sent his head swimming. He hugged himself, shivering, while Clara set his folded boxers on the dresser and tucked his socks into his shoes.

The voices of Daleks shouting for extermination played across his consciousness as plainly as the sound of his own breathing. Screams, cries for help and death haunted his thoughts.

“ _Doctor_...” Davros croaked from the past.

The Doctor grabbed the back of his head and looked out the window on his left. Instead of Earth, he saw a ruined Gallifrey in flames. He knew it wasn’t real-- fevers did strange things to his mind-- but the recollection wasn’t welcome.

“Here,” Clara had turned down the bed and piled up two of the abundant, colorful pillows. At his spooked look, she hedged, “Doctor?”

He stared at the exposed white sheets amidst the multicolored floral print comforter.

“This is your bed, Clara.”

“Yes, and I’m letting you rest in it until you’re better.”

Her face, that face with those big brown eyes and the little smile on her lips, all looked so  _kind_. The sort of kindness that cut through the fever noise to remind him of what was real.

“Come on.” She cupped his elbow and he suddenly remembered how to scoot over onto the island of white within the floral cloth sea.

Gravity dragged him onto his side. His head landed squarely on the pillows that smelled like Clara’s peach-scented hair. Warm blankets rustled to lay over him like an ocean swell. The cold lost its cruel bite. At last, his trembling body relaxed.

He tried to thank her, but as usual his brain bounced off the words he wanted to say. “Ahh, Clara, Clara, Clara...you never told me your bed was so warm. I think I’ll...stay for a bit. A nice catnap. Yeah, just a nap...just a-- oh, it’s raining out. I like rain...sounds nice...”

But Clara, being Clara, picked up on the unspoken message. She kissed him by the ear and whispered, “You’re welcome.” Her weight disappeared off the bed, causing it to creak faintly, “I’ll go to the shop down the street and get you some chicken noodle soup and Saltines. Okay?”

“Mmhmm. And that purple stuff...can’t think of the name...assistance for alligators, I think...”

“Gatorade?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He wasn’t sure when exactly she left the room. Her palpable absence roared in his awareness.

Two cars swished wetly past the window. Light rainfall pattered on the glass. Sometimes loud, sometimes quiet. The Doctor floated on the sounds around him. Everything echoed in a way that made his ear canals want to slam shut, except they wouldn’t because ear anatomy didn’t work that way. Swirling blue patterns danced within the darkness of his closed eyelids. He couldn’t feel his body in space unless he moved it. Disconcerting, however it wasn’t  _painful_. At least, it didn’t hurt until the pulsations in his joints flared and receded at random intervals.

He kept feeling heavier and heavier. Was the bed pulling him in? Consuming him? Not the most awful thing, being eaten alive by a fluffy, soft bed.

Rain fell harder outside. A veritable downpour roaring across rooftops and lashing anything in its wake. To the Doctor it sounded like buildings crashing down in flames. He turned over onto his back despite moving being a miserable, disorienting experience and looked out the window.

Flames licked at everything beyond the glass. Closer now, not in the distance. He knew they weren’t real flames because they made him feel colder instead of warmer and the rain didn’t affect them.

Somewhere, a teakettle whistled. It bashed into the Doctor’s awareness like bullets through flesh. He clapped both hands over his ears to block it out. City noises reached an unpleasant crescendo. Then it all withdrew into unreality many galaxies away.

He struggled out of bed and closed the partly-open window. Double-pane glass, what a fantastic invention. Its coldness didn’t feel nice on his forehead. He forgot he was standing up and reached for blankets that weren’t there. Just as well-- he shut his eyes to avoid seeing the not-real fire burning outside.

“Doctor? I’m back!”

Bags rattled in the living room. Clara’s rain boots squelched down the hall.

“Hey, you, what’re you doing?”

“Lying in bed,” answered the Doctor without opening his eyes.

The squelchy boots approached him and a raincoat rustled. Coolness from outside hung around her like an aura. “You aren’t in bed, Doctor. You’re standing against the window.”

"Oh. Thought I w-was,” he groaned, shivering. For the life of him he couldn’t turn around or move his feet. “Where is the b-bed? D-D-Did you move it?”

“No.” Clara grasped his hand. “It’s all right. I’ll take you to back to bed, okay?”

He opened his eyes to see the bed. The headboard appeared to be an entity of itself and unrelated to the rectangular colorful thing below it. 

A tug on his hand got his legs moving. Walking came easier while being led, as if some of Clara’s will transferred to him. The mattress became part of the bed again once he sat on it. 

“I better take your temperature again. You feel warmer than earlier.”

The Doctor stayed seated while Clara slid his sonic sunglasses onto his face. She took them off after they beeped.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“Twenty-nine point seven. It’s gone up. Kind of expect that. Fevers get worse around evening.” Clara tried to put cheer into her voice, but he knew her too well now-- she was getting worried, “I’ll get you some Gatorade. The worst thing you can do is not drink anything.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “I want a curly straw or I won’t drink it.”

A little sparkle flashed in her eyes. She piled four pillows against the headboard of her bed and guided him to sit against them. No position relieved him of the aching throb in his joints. He wanted to kill the awful kick drummer pounding inside his skull. At least nothing looked on fire outside anymore. For now.

“I’ll be right back,” Clara whispered.

“I won’t go anywhere. You don’t need to shout.”

“I didn’t shout.”

“Oh...my ears think you did.”

“Shh, rest.”

She was gone and back again-- sans rain boots and raincoat-- before he fully realized she departed the room. The small single-serving container of purple fluid had a red swirly straw sticking out of the top.

“Here you go. Gatorade with a curly straw.”

The Doctor grunted and accepted it. Watching the Gatorade go through the straw’s loops offered momentary entertainment. Then, not sure where to set the partly-consumed beverage down, he handed it back to Clara. She guided him to place it on the nightstand. Oddly, it made better sense to him than her doing it herself and telling him about it.

“Do you want to try a bit of soup?” asked Clara.

“I haven’t eaten anything in a long time. I...don’t know.” He struggled to spit out the correct words, “Do you think I should?”

“Yeah. Might be a good idea. I’ll start with a little and bring more if you want more. Same trick as when we experiment with your food texture issues.”

“Fine with me.”

The Doctor figured he dozed in the brief interim. He closed his eyes, opened them and could smell the scent of chicken noodle soup wafting into the bedroom. Then came the familiar soft clatters of Clara carrying a lap tray holding a bowl, spoon, Saltines and a napkin.

Sitting up straighter to eat used more strength than before. The Doctor bore the discomfort in silence. He gazed at the half-full bowl of brown soup broth, pale yellow noodles and chicken. Clara had kindly scooped out the peas for him.

“I let it sit and cool for about five minutes,” she told him. “I’m putting a bucket down here in case you have to throw up.”

“Where?”

“Here,” Clara rattled it against the nightstand. A big rectangular blue bucket.

“Thank you,” replied the Doctor. Strange, it came out easily that time.

“Don’t mention it.” She flashed her quick smile before sliding off the bed and opening her closet door once more. The soft white light bulb inside the door provided enough light for the whole room without stabbing his skull. 

Hangers banged into her plastic laundry basket. The metal ones rang unpleasantly. She kept  _doing_  it. Bang. Clang. Bang! Clang!

“Clara,” the Doctor winced, “Is that much noise necessary? How many garments does a woman need?”

“Yes, and a lot,” Clara shot back. The banging quieted, “Sorry. Figured I’ll get the laundry done. Was gonna do it tomorrow, but...” Her voice trailed off as she carried the basket into the bathroom across the hall and sorted everything in the dirty clothes hamper. The hamper lid slammed and its plastic bottom scraped the carpet like nails on a chalkboard. 

She had no idea everyday noises hurt his ears more than usual right now. Blaming her for being annoying wasn’t fair. Besides, he could barely hear himself breathe less than a second later. Then everything went back to normal for him.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and broke three Saltines over the soup bowl. They added thickness to help him get past the slimy noodles that toed the edge of his tolerance. Now he could dip his spoon into it and take a bite.

Oh, it tasted  _good_.

Half a bowl of soup ended up being exactly the right amount. He sipped some Gatorade and leaned back again. 

Clara collected the tray on her return trip through the bedroom. She paused to look out the window. “It’s coming down good out there. Heh, maybe the universe made you sick on purpose. We might be out in  _that_.”

The Doctor shot her a look from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “It should’ve chosen something a little less agonizing, then.”

“Maybe the universe wants you to slow down,” she retorted playfully, and pointedly walked off to take care of his soup before he got another statement out.

Grumbling, the Doctor dragged his too-heavy legs out from under the soft blankets. The floor hurt his feet, but there was no helping it. His body had alerted him to a pressing need.

This incarnation gave bathroom urges the same priority as hunger and thirst in the previous one. Then again, his last self didn’t register waste signals at all. As if the organs weren’t there, but they were, and they took care of themselves if he didn’t act preemptively. He built a watch that vibrated as a reminder to use the bathroom every three hours. Thank the stars  _this_  incarnation didn’t put him through  _that_  again. 

A blue door registered in his consciousness. Clara returned as he staggered towards it.

“And where are you going?”

“To make water, do you mind?”

“You’re heading for the TARDIS.”

“Oh.”

A brief directional correction took him across the hall to the bathroom. Sub-zero tiles threatened to freeze-dry his bare feet clean off. He bore it because his need for the toilet outweighed any concerns about frostbitten toes. 

Amazing how uncomfortable a full bladder could be. He managed his business, washed his hands and braced himself on the doorway when purple spots danced through his vision.

The fire he saw outside now licked at the outermost glass of Clara’s bedroom window. Seeing it so close brought fresh shivers. His drooping eyes focused on the floor. White tiles gave way to reddish-brown carpeting. A virtually impenetrable barrier. His feet stubbornly didn’t budge past it despite his will to walk forward.

“You didn’t tell me your house had force fields,” grumbled the Doctor, “Clara, bring me my sonic sunglasses. I have to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow. I need to-- stop dimming the lights!”

“Doctor, I’m not-- Doctor!” Clara barely saved him from falling on his face. She threw his arm around her shoulders and half-dragged him back into her bedroom.

Laying down cleared his darkened vision. Well, until Clara put his sonic sunglasses on him to take his temperature. Her mouth dropped when she put them on herself to read the data.

“Your fever jumped to thirty-seven point eight! Doctor? Doctor, are you awake?”

“Mm,” he made a noise to indicate yes.

Rain swished on the window, carrying echoes of Dalek voices and explosions. Screams, death and despair replaced the gentle rat-a-tap-taps. The flames outside the window turned the room colder than Europa’s ice. He couldn’t stop his shivering anymore. Every atom of his body  _hurt_.

Saliva suddenly filled his mouth. He swallowed it. His stomach felt uncomfortably full. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Clara, give me the bucket. I’m going to be sick.”

Clara helped him sit up and placed the bucket in his lap. Moving did him in. His abdomen contracted agonizingly and completely undigested soup landed in the bucket with a wet splat. It tasted the same coming up as it did going down. His body hadn’t absorbed any of it.

“The Daleks are coming,” he whispered, wide-eyed, “Clara...I--” Another heave cut him off. There went the Gatorade with a sour aftertaste, so he soaked in some of it before it came up again. He coughed, gagged and spat out bile. After that, nothing. His stomach was empty.

“We have to stop the Daleks, Clara...”

 _“Exterminate.”_  

Her familiar hand smoothed his unruly gray hair.

 _“Exterminate!”_  

“There aren’t any Daleks here, Doctor.” 

 _“EXTERMINATE!”_  

“They’re...they’re burning everything...they’ll burn you...and everything...”

 _“The Doctor is regenerating!”_  

“No, they won’t. It’s okay, Doctor. I promise.” 

 _“Love from Gallifrey, boys!”_  

He dry heaved a few times with nothing else to bring up. “How can you be sure?”

She rubbed his back in slow, firm circles while he rested his forehead in his hands. “Because we aren’t at Trenzalore. We’re on Earth. We’re in my flat. Okay?”

Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if they came from the puking or all the screams echoing in his mind. Probably the puking...

Clara made a face at the bucket. “Are you done throwing up?” 

At his nod, she set the bucket on the floor, helped him lie back and gave him a lemon-flavored breath strip to get rid of the vomit taste in his mouth. She didn’t tuck him in. Instead, she pulled the blankets further off his body.

“Stay here.”

The Doctor’s mind blanked. Smoke from the flames outside began entering the room.

“ _Exterminate! Exterminate! EXTERMINATE!_ ” roared in his ears. Many voices, various pitches and speeds. All of them Daleks. The swimming blue smudges dancing across his retinas took the shapes of every person he couldn’t save.

Clara padded back into the room with two bottles. One white, the other clear. “I have Tylenol and Aspirin.”

He barely heard her over the constant hiss of flames and Daleks. Aspirin got through loud and clear.

“Acetylsalicylic acid is poisonous. I can take acetaminophen.”

“Right. No aspirin. Gotcha. Here’s the Tylenol.” Clara passed him two long, white pills. “Sorry, I don’t have any chewables. You’ll have to gulp them.”

The Doctor looked at the tablets in his hand for a long time, building up the courage to put them in his mouth. A quick gulp of Gatorade and they went down on the first shot. The sensation of swallowing the pills nearly caused a gagging fit, but he bit the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom to stop it. He took Clara’s hand somewhere between taking the medicine and curling up on his side again.

“Boy, when you get sick, you get  _sick_ ,” Clara murmured, rubbing his forearm.

“I don’t make it a habit.” He tried to see her through the thinning memory-smoke. “I’m not much fun, am I?”

Her eyes twinkled. The low lighting let him see her dimples when she smiled. “Going through it alone isn’t much fun, is it?” 

Realizing he would in the future sent an ache across his hearts. The Dalek voices and flames receded to outside the window again where they faded beyond notice. Less pain pulsated his joints. The Tylenol was already kicking in.

Conversation grew tiring. He faded into a doze that hung just above sleep’s oblivion. Rain tapped against the window and to him it sounded like bombs dropping. More screams than he could count raged behind his eardrums. He didn’t say anything because there wasn’t a thing she could do to help. Why trouble her with it?

Clara moved quietly about the room to empty the bucket, put away the laundry and shut off the closet light. That time she took great care to make as little noise as possible. Papers rattled, each crackle louder than gunshots. She settled on her side of the bed and flicked on the dim bedside lamp. 

The back of a warm hand touched his cheek. Giving his eyebrows a little twitch was the only way he could tell her he was aware.

“Oh, did I wake you up?”

“Mm-mm...wasn’t asleep.”

“Okay. I brought some papers to grade in with me. I’ll be right next to you. Is the lamp bothering you?”

“Mmph,” he gave his heavy head a small shake, “Mm-mm.”

“Okay.” She pulled the blankets up to his shoulder and scooted no more than an arm’s length away.

The Doctor lay there in the silence, listening to Clara’s red pen mark the papers in her lap. The rhythm of scrapes and silences told him she was grading essays. Very, very faint music filtered from her earbuds. No louder than usual-- his ears were simply picking up things they normally didn’t.

She was listening to  _The Heart Asks For Pleasure First_  by Nightwish. For one moment his mind got off Trenzalore and wandered to the Gallfreyan waltz they shared on the TARDIS not too long ago.

Time flowed across his bones. He lay underneath it like a stingray on the ocean floor. Being able to exist in Clara’s presence and feel his current time stream converge with hers brought him an unimaginable comfort. What would humans do if they felt each others’ time streams the way he did? 

Everything had a time stream, even inanimate objects. The Doctor could easily sense the entire universe if he wanted to. A bit overwhelming, so he rarely opened himself all the way unless he was deep within a controlled meditation.

Time streams weren’t a single river flowing into forever. They were rivers with endless tributaries and streams flowing off in every imaginable direction like a quasi-dimensional fractal pattern. Infinite possibilities, all completely real and valid. Sometimes he likened it to watching a tree grow with each new twig signaling choices being made. The universe was infinite trees growing around, into and onto each other. Everything, in some big and small ways, had connections to a main stalk marking the universe’s beginning. And even that point had infinite branches!

From a non-linear standpoint, it really was a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff.

And  _all_  of his time streams crossed Clara’s at some point. Every. Single. One. 

Chills came back, shredding his mental musings into pain shards. He exhaled heavily as the cold flames outside the window licked into the room and snaked around the bed. They went from orange to blue. Frigid, icy blue-- a visual oxymoron. Well, not really, blue flames were hotter than red ones. They slowly engulfed the room without actually burning anything. Because how could something so cold ignite?

The Doctor stared out the bedroom door. In his pale blue eyes, reflections of the people he could never save. Gallifrey, the Time War, Trenzalore. Women, men, children, pets. Lives,  _gone_.

Daleks snarled in his ears. People were screaming. The flames roared.

“Stop!” shouted the Doctor. His whole body shook violently from chills. “Please...stop!”

“Doctor?” Clara’s pen stopped scraping.

Half a building crashed down onto a family standing in the hallway. Daleks rolled over the rubble, uncaring of the death they inflicted. Their images wavered in the heat of the flames.

Papers went flying as Clara reached past him to grab his sonic sunglasses. She checked the readings while touching his brow.

“Forty-one point five-- oh, Doctor! Doctor, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulders, “Doctor?”

He couldn’t reply, except to shiver. His body was throbbing all over and too heavy to lift even a finger. Her face swam in his vision, half-hidden by smoke, flames and Dalek eye-stalks.

Clara’s expression contorted. She yanked all the snaps on his nightshirt open and pushed it off his arms, leaving him naked.

“Have to...help them...the people...Gallifrey...Trenzalore...”

“Doctor, I need  _your_  help right now.” Clara threw his arm over her shoulder and pulled him to sit. “We’re going to walk, okay?” Her voice echoed, far away in a cave, “Can you walk for me?”

Sitting upright turned his vision nearly black. Before his glazed eyes, the blurry gold chalice he drank from when he threw his name away. Had he drunk from it again? Was he about to regenerate into a monster?

Gravity vied for purchase of his body. Balance no longer existed.

“One, two, three! Up!” Clara stood. The Doctor followed. She walked forward. He stumbled at her side, naked as he was the day he left his mother’s womb. 

Glaring white light lit shiny tiles and suddenly he was lying supine in her bathtub. Freezing cold porcelain spread ice flames on his skin again. The fever flushed his face bright red. His quivering doubled its violence until he wondered if anyone ever lost all their teeth from chattering them too hard.

Clara left the bathroom and came back again. She was a moving shape in blinding whiteness.

“Everyone is dead,” he moaned, “I failed them. I failed them. Trenzalore-- I saw Daleks tear them apart. I saw my enemies break down everything I built up there. And my regeneration...any survivors...wiped out. Gone.  _Gone_.” He opened his eyes wide, so wide they almost threatened to pop out of his skull. Staring into the bright white bathroom light and causing pain was his only means of staying grounded. 

“Doctor, it’s all right.”

“Clara?” He searched the brilliance for her.

She touched his hand. “I’m right here.”

Flames surged through the bathroom and covered him without burning his flesh. They had no smell. He curled his hands into fists despite the agony of moving. His throbbing heartbeats pounded his cranium.

“Make it stop, Clara! This merry-go-round is a horror-go-round. Make it stop!”

An edge of her cheekbone became visible in the glare. Something metal clanked on the wall like explosions in his skull.

“I promise that I will.”

Water turned on by his feet. Clara pulled a lever that switched on the mobile shower head, which she kept turned away from him. She let it run for a moment. Its awful hiss sounded like unholy shrieks.

“You’re going to hate this. I’m sorry.”

Then she sprayed him head to toe with the lukewarm water just long enough to douse the flames on his flesh. One pass upward and another downward, then off. Utter agony, and he couldn’t do anything except curl up in the fetal position on his side. She massaged his wet skin to promote blood flow and help his body dissipate the fever heat naturally.

Reality swam around him until he didn’t know what was hallucination and what was true. His dazzled senses broiled like the surface of a sun. Pain came at him from every direction, including inside his bones. Everything looked too high-contrast. Lights were suns and shadows the darkest voids. There was no in between. 

He became a tiny boy again, lying on his back with his head pressed into the corner of his bedroom on Gallifrey. A special place where sunlight used to come through two angled windows to light his corner. He waited daily for that magical time. Because there, amidst the luminescence and darkness, he hummed and waved his fingers before his eyes. Nothing compared to the play of sunbeams between his fingers and their shadows fluttering above his head. They were music. They were markers of the time stream he always felt flowing through him. They were his first companions.

Right now his fingers wouldn’t move, but his voice still worked. What a fantastic tool for creating output to block input. He let his eyes roll back and hummed very low in his throat, trying to connect to the light and shadow again for the first time in centuries. His childhood windows appeared in his mind. Every detail remained perfectly unchanged by the years. Light and shadow welcomed him back as if no time had passed. They even talked with Clara’s voice!

“Doctor,” Clara patted his cheek, “I’m putting a straw in your mouth. It’s Gatorade. You need to drink this. Slowly now...”

The promised straw touched his lips. He drank automatically by reflex. Gatorade with ice in it to flood out the flames trying to burst through his hearts. Coldness traced a line through his chest to somewhere behind his ribs. A nice feeling. The straw withdrew again when he drained the container. His humming resumed, the only thing keeping the pain manageable. He reached out, searching for the hands that gave him a drink. The movement had no direction and his arms flopped at his sides like useless logs.

Her hand returned to cup his face again. Such a comfort, why did he run from it so much?

“There, there. It’s okay. I’m right here with you.”

Using his voice sapped energy he didn’t have anymore. He stopped groaning and lay still. His breath came in shallow, regular gasps driven by his brain stem rather than conscious need. 

An immolated Trenzalore floated in the brightness clouding his sight. Gallifrey burned beside it. Both raged inside him. Faces flashed across his retinas. Every person he couldn’t save. Every person he lost.

“No, no, no!” Clara jostled his shoulders. Her shouting blasted shock waves across his eardrums. “Stay with me, Doctor!”

Emotion choked her words into a hoarse croak. He felt her put his sonic sunglasses on and remove them again to check the reading.

“Forty-two point three. Okay, okay, calm, Clara, stay calm.”

She made another pass with the shower head. The massaging resumed less gently than before. The Doctor laid there, only moving when her actions shifted his positioning in the bathtub. Fever noise raged like a rock concert while his brain and body-parts were two people trying to yell at each other over the deafening music. The signals couldn’t connect. He had no way to tell her he was still completely cognizant of her presence.

“I’m going to keep talking to you whether you hear me or not.” Clara placed a cold cloth on his forehead. She wrapped an equally chilled hand towel around his neck, right on his carotid arteries.

“And you’re going to listen to me whether you want to or not. Do you remember what you said to my Zygon double?” 

He was about to recall it when another cold, wet towel settled on his groin. Horridly uncomfortable to his private parts until the coolness began seeping across his skin.

“So how about this?  _I_  forgive you.” Her voice cracked on the word  _forgive_. “I don’t care if you can’t forgive yourself. I forgive you anyway. Do you hear me, Doctor? After all you’ve done, I forgive you.

“Unforgivable people don’t try to help others avoid the same pain they’ve suffered. Unforgivable people don’t regret their mistakes. Unforgivable people don’t care.

“So if you think you’re unforgivable...” Clara sniffed and laid her hand on his, “...remember that someone out there doesn’t agree. Tell yourself you are forgiven. Say it out loud if you have to-- ‘Clara Oswald forgives me’-- and run to save people. That’s who you are, Doctor.” She rubbed his forearm, “So when people call for help, run to them. Run, you clever old man, and  _remember_.” 

Quiet rushed in after Clara finished talking. The Doctor took each word into both his hearts and placed them in the memory treasure chest bearing her name. Clara Oswald gave him what he couldn’t give himself. 

Something on the floor creaked when she adjusted her position. She took the cloth off his forehead, re-wet it in the sink and wrung the cold water out right on his face. He couldn’t blink when the droplets stung his eyes.

“Doctor, you’re scaring me. You’re  _really_  scaring me.” The cloth plopped onto his forehead again. She held it there as if she could press the coolness into the frontal lobes of his brain. “I can’t dial nine-nine-nine for you because how will I explain two hearts? You’ll end up in some laboratory and what then? Come on! A virus is a bunch of molecules! Don’t let it do this to you!”

Her shout dropped to a subito whisper, “Listen...I’m right next to you. Okay? You don’t have to answer me right now, but I expect you to answer me. You’re too daft and stubborn to end like this. Not on my watch.”

Brightness dimmed briefly from Clara checking his temperature with his sonic sunglasses. He knew it just went down because something was under his control again. Breathing. He inflated his lungs to their fullest and let it out again. His eyes stung from his inability to blink. Until suddenly he could. Both eyelids fluttered shut by themselves and he had to force them open again.

Clara bent closer, studying him. “Hey, are you with me?”

He winked both eyes and followed her face with his gaze. Her shoulders visibly sagged. 

“Thank God.” She descended closer and touched her lips to his cheek. “Your fever is going down.”

Cold air registered in his awareness again. When had he stopped shivering? It didn’t matter-- he started again with a vengeance. Ow, that really rattled his aching joints!

“Easy. Easy! Here, bite this.” Clara gave him his No Gloom ‘Shroom. Until then, he hadn’t realized he was gritting his teeth so hard. She also set his box of chalk on the edge of the tub where it wouldn’t get wet. “Here’s your chalk, too.”

Chalk was good. Chalk made sense.

The Doctor shivered in waves. Cold flames crackled at the bathroom door without crossing its threshold. Through them, he saw the people he failed walking away towards a distant light. The Daleks couldn’t hurt them there no matter how much they fired their weapons.

His atrocities would never go away, yet he found comfort in the vision anyhow. Maybe those lost in the Great Time War and battle of Trenzalore could finally have real peace because Clara Oswald forgave him.

He closed his eyes, grateful.

“It’s a good thing you’re here. This isn’t something you should suffer through alone.” Clara whispered in his ear. 

Words refused to come. Instead, he gripped her forearm.

She patted his hand and took his temperature with his sonic sunglasses, “Forty point five.” Relief was evident when she systematically refreshed all the cold towels and rags she placed on him.

The abrupt coolness felt worse than before, especially the one on his groin. Words didn’t form in his head. Maybe the fever melted his gray matter into mush. Although, if it did, he wouldn’t be conscious now would he?

“Now what’s that frown for? Is it the cold towels?” Clara tilted her head, “Listen... I know the towels feel awful, but they’re helping bring your fever down. Let’s keep them on until your temperature drops below forty.” She sniffed and brushed her thumb over his eyebrows. “Heh, I messed up your eyebrows. Sorry about that. I smoothed them out again for you.”

Another memory clouded his thoughts. A comforting one carrying a voice from very long ago.

_“Listen...this is just a dream. But very clever people can hear dreams. So, please, just listen. I know you're afraid, but being afraid is all right. Because didn't anybody ever tell you? Fear is a superpower. Fear can make you faster and cleverer and stronger._

_“And one day, you're going to come back to this barn. And on that day you're going to be very afraid indeed. But that's okay. Because if you're very wise and very strong, fear doesn't have to make you cruel or cowardly. Fear can make you kind._

_“It doesn't matter if there's nothing under the bed or in the dark, so long as you know it's okay to be afraid of it. I'll show you. So, listen. If you listen to nothing else, listen to this._

_“You're always going to be afraid, even if you learn to hide it. Fear is like a companion. A constant companion, always there. But that's okay, because fear can bring us together. Fear can bring you home. I'm going to leave you something, just so you'll always remember, fear makes companions of us all.”_

The Doctor blinked, trying to place that voice. Surely he remembered in the wrong direction. It couldn’t have been...could it?

Sleep had almost found him when Clara gently removed the cold towels he kept trying to ignore. She helped him sit up and wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders. It occurred to him that he should feel hopelessly embarrassed about her seeing him get so ill...yet he didn’t. She saw him naked before, she watched him have a meltdown-- hell, they made love. Why feel embarrassed when she stood by his side through this, too?

The Doctor climbed out of the tub on his own. Dizziness nearly sent him tumbling. Luckily, the wall gave him something to grab onto. He took the No Gloom ‘Shroom out of his mouth.

“Oh. I’m naked. How long have I been naked? Oh! These walls...were they always this bright? Do something about that light! My head hurts. It’s cold in here. Why aren’t I wearing clothes?” 

Just like that, his voice worked again. He felt like he did seconds after regenerating-- things were being said, but they had nothing to grow from. The words that did finally arrive in his mind flew out of his mouth at lightning speed.

“Space, the final frontier. These are the voyagers of the starship Enterpr-- Clara, where is the Enterprise? Is it in the TARDIS?”

He slapped himself on the forehead, well aware of what he sounded like. Maybe he should avoid using his mouth until his thinking processes settled again.

Did he imagine Clara’s deep sigh? What did it mean? Annoyance? Relief?

“It’s all right, Doctor.” Clara switched off the bathroom light.

She followed him into her bedroom where he slowly worked his arms through his nightshirt sleeves. He let her fasten the snaps this time. When she got to his chest, he suddenly grasped her hands in his. A painful thorn reminded him of its presence in his chest again, that silent echo of her brevity against his eternity. Like that damn thorn bird. But oh, what a beautiful song she made his hearts sing.

“Doctor?” Clara flicked her hair out of her face with a twitch of her head.

The Doctor peered at her in the soft amber glow of the dim bedside lamp. Her visage looked slightly different depending on the light. He wanted to memorize all its aspects because he never wanted to forget the cast of her skin or miscount a single eyelash.

“Clara...” He struggled to pronounce his thoughts in understandable language, “Clara, Clara, Clara, what will I ever do without you?”

Those big, brown eyes blinked. Her throat flexed in a swallow, prompting him to do the same. She laid one hand on his chest and met his gaze.

“You keep doing what you’re good at. You’re the Doctor, and you save people. That is who you are. Just don’t forget to include  _yourself_  in that equation. Sometimes you need to save yourself.”

Clara had a talent for saying things he needed to hear at exactly the right moment. A selfish part of him longed to keep her suspended in time, away from the ravages of age and death, but to do such would be cruel. Love was never possession. Picking a flower caused it to wilt and die immediately, but appreciating it in its environment while it lasted-- that was love.

“Is that what you want of me, Clara?” Because he would do  _anything_  for her.

“Yeah.” She finished closing his nightshirt snaps and smoothed the fabric against his skin. “Keep going, Doctor.”

Her answer squeezed his hearts with bittersweet wonder. He leaned forward and kissed her between the eyebrows. Slowly, tenderly, like she might break. 

They exchanged somewhat shy smiles and separated-- him settling back on the bed and her cleaning up the papers she spilled.

“I think the Tylenol was a mistake,” said the Doctor, “My fever rebounded instead of staying suppressed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tch, Clara, it’s not your fault.”

“But I-- no, I won’t argue.” She took a shaky breath, “Neither of us knew. Now we do.”

It wasn’t until Clara reclaimed her side of the bed that the Doctor noticed his chalk in her pajama shirt pocket. He worried his bottom lip between his front teeth until she picked her pen up and arranged herself to mark essays.

Chalk wasn’t the only thing the Doctor wanted right then. He scooted over, slid his arms awkwardly around Clara’s waist and laid his head on her shoulder. A deep breath of his chalk mixed into her scent escaped again as a contented sigh. He absently rubbed his fingers in circles on the satin material at her hip. There, that felt right.

“Are you feeling me up or stimming?” Clara whispered.

The Doctor realized what he was doing and froze mid-motion. How rude of him to not ask permission first! 

“I--”

“Oi!” She poked his nose with the clicky part of her pen. “I’m teasing you. Go on, stim all you want. It’s fine.”

Relieved, he let his right hand resume its circular motion on her hip. His mind went blank as he focused solely on the feedback from his fingers. Satin was a luxurious fabric that felt better stretched across someone’s warm skin. He nuzzled his cheek against her shoulder and closed his eyes.

Clara reached down to stroke the hand he wasn’t moving. She did it too lightly at first and it hurt like a branding iron. His quick intake of breath alerted her to the error. She touched more firmly in silent apology.

“What are you thinking when you stim?”

“I’m not. I’m experiencing.”

Her pen scraped the paper some more. “Oh, then what are you experiencing?”

“It’s--” he paused to yawn, “--difficult to explain. I’ll let you know when I come up with something.”

“I’ll be sure to listen.” She patted his hand.

“Mm, read me whatever you’re grading. The more boring it is, the better.”

It ended up being so dull that he dozed off halfway through.

.o

Less headache felt incredible, however the pain changed to an awful sore throat. Like everything from his larynx to his diaphragm was chapped and needed a good coating of balm. At least his tongue didn’t have red spots anymore. That looked hideous no matter how anyone sliced it.

The Zygon flu war took place in the back of his throat and now the cleanup operations commenced. Hence the cough. This go around let him skip the dry cough and go right into the chunky wet one. Oh how he detested hearing the mucus rattle in his own chest.

“Ugh,” the Doctor groaned after an exhausting paroxysm, “This is the worst part of Zygon flu.”

“Seriously?” Clara balked.

“It’s easy to lie there and suffer with a fever. A cough is like being run over by a Dalek every time you try to think!”

“Speaking of fevers-- yours is way down.”

“It’s at twenty-three point eight. I’m on the--” he coughed again, “--mend.”

“Mmhmm. Do you feel like eating?”

“Uhh...not sure. I don’t feel nauseated.”

“I’ll make you toast and heat up some more soup.”

“I can--”

“No. You’re not well yet. You’ll send your fever shooting up again if you try to run around too much right now.”

The Doctor coughed into a tissue and rolled his eyes. “Clara-a-a-a-a...”

“You’re on full-time rest until your temperature is back to normal.”

“Let’s negotiate this.”

"Doctor...”

“The couch in the den. They’re like beds if you lay sideways on them, but you can also sit and still rest. The telly is out there. I’ll be less bored. I just survived the worst fever of all my lives. It would look very disappointing if I died of  _boredom_.”

“Argh, fine.”

Good to know negotiations still worked on Clara. Ten minutes later, the very pleased Doctor curled up on the couch with a heavy blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Now, your breakfast. Sit tight.” She took his chalk out of her pajama shirt pocket and tucked it into his nightshirt pocket.

The Doctor switched the TV on and channel surfed until he ran across Godzilla’s brilliant blue radioactive breath blasting a giant plant creature. Sparks flew as both monsters roared. Then, because it wasn’t a movie channel, it went to commercial.

“I didn’t know you liked Godzilla movies.” Clara set his toast and Gatorade on a TV tray and carried it closer to the couch. She went back for his soup and Saltines.

“They’re entertaining.” He shrugged one shoulder, half-watching the menswear commercial where a man took his brown sports jacket off and wrapped it around his lady companion’s shoulders.

It almost made him miss wearing tweed. Almost.

“So, which movie is it?” Clara asked.

“ _Godzilla versus Biollante_ ,” he answered, eyeing the jars of honey and jam in Clara’s hands. At her raised brow, he added, “What?”

“Honey or jam?” 

“For?”

“Your toast.”

“Mm, jam.” He took the jam and spread it on the buttery toast. Honey risked upsetting his stomach. Besides, it wouldn’t taste great with soup. He didn’t feel up to seeing his breakfast make a return trip.

Clara sat on the couch and blinked, watching him eat like he hadn’t had food for weeks. The inner corners of her eyebrows curled upward. Her lips were parted, showing a hint of her teeth, but she wasn’t smiling.

“Mm?” It came out as a questioning noise. For emphasis, he raised his eyebrows. The look persisted. He swallowed, “Clara?”

“You...last night you were unconscious from a fever in my bathtub. And now here you are, eating like nothing happened.”

“I wasn’t unconscious.” He ate another bite of toast. “I heard everything you said.”

“Then why didn’t you say something back?”

“I couldn’t--” A fresh round of coughing interrupted him. “--make my body do anything I wanted it to. I suppose you can compare it to this. I’m my brain. You’re my body, and this is the fever.”

He turned the telly up to unbearable levels. Right during an obnoxious musical commercial about toilet paper. “It’s impossible to make conversation with so much noise, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”

“You can’t hear me telling you your hair is a mess.”

“ _What_  did you just say about my hair?”

Okay, keeping the sound that high hurt his ears. He dialed the volume down and dropped the remote on the tray.

“My body was doing that, Clara. Everything shut down. I tried to move, and my body refused. My previous two incarnations had spells like that that lasted for hours. Mind you, they were never quite as paralyzing as last night. I was always able to move about if I wanted to, but I couldn’t talk. Not a word. As if I wanted to forget how to talk, changed my mind at the last second, but, too late for takies-backies, no more talking.” 

He gulped a mouthful of Gatorade and devoured more toast, “Until last night I would say my worst shutdown was after losing Amy and Rory. I didn’t say a word for a solid month. Not one word.”

Clara hugged a couch pillow to her chest and examined her fingernails. The wrinkle between her eyebrows was running the risk of becoming a permanent line. 

“Were you scared?”

“Nope,” answered the Doctor. He finished his toast and began crumbling Saltines over his soup. “Not a bit.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugged, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “Are you cross with me?”

“No!” But she sounded cross! “No, no, I just...gah! You didn’t see what I saw, Doctor! I thought I was watching you die in my bathroom!  _I_  was scared!”

“I looked  _that_  bad?”

She sniffed contemptuously and let her chin hit the pillow.

Now it became the Doctor’s turn to frown a line into his own brow. He studied Clara’s hunched posture and how tightly she hugged the pillow to her chest. This behavior meant  _something_  important. Nonverbal cues weren’t his strongest suit, however a moment of rubbing at his hair let him puzzle it out.

He scooted over until they were hip to hip. She turned and hugged him as tightly as she clutched the pillow she just discarded. He moved the blanket on his shoulders to surround them both while he embraced her in return.

Sometimes, he got so wrapped up in how much he needed her that he forgot how much she needed him.

And their faces were hidden from each other right now. It felt safe to bring this up.

“That was you in the barn, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“When I was very young, I went out to sleep in the barn to prove I could be brave. And you know that dream I told you about? The one about someone grabbing my leg? It happened that night. Someone told me fear makes companions of us all, and they left me the little toy soldier that belonged to Orson Pink. The things you dream about don’t leave evidence in the real world. You came back into the TARDIS looking like you’d seen a ghost, and you told me to take off and not look back.

“So, to reiterate my question, that was you in the barn, wasn’t it?”

The hitch in her breath said it louder than words.

“You were so scared,” she whispered in his ear, “You’re still scared.”

“Scared isn’t the worst feeling in the world. The opposite of love is the scariest emotion there is.”

“Hate?”

“No. Love and hate are both sides of the same coin. They both require passion. The opposite of love, Clara, the thing that’s far away from the love-hate coin, is  _apathy_.” He absentmindedly played with a loose strand of her hair. “Anyone capable of hate is capable of love, but someone cocooned in apathy is a lot harder to crack open again.

“Apathy is feeling nothing when you watch people die in front of you. Apathy is feeling nothing when you see the most beautiful sunset of your life. Apathy is the cold, dark place where someone runs when they’ve suffered so much pain they don’t know how else to survive it. 

“Apathy turns people into emotional hermits. They build a mansion in their mind, board up the windows and try not to see the beautiful things anymore because they remind them of what hurt them. Apathy is a lonely place, but people don’t care that it’s lonely. They convince themselves they can’t be hurt if they’re alone with the rocks in their chest that were once hearts.

“There are no more sunrises or laughter. You don’t see light or dark. It’s just gray, gloomy and silent. That is apathy. That is what I’m afraid of, Clara.”

 _I tried to live there, and you didn’t let me. What happens when my mansion is empty again? Will I stay the Doctor, or will I give in to the apathy?_  

Clara’s hand cupped the back of his head, her fingers burying themselves in his gray hair. The Doctor told himself his head ached from the lingering fever and not because he was fighting the lump in his throat. He laid his cheek on her shoulder, leaning on her as much as she leaned on him. This conversation had veered too far into emotional territory.

He felt her neck work in a swallow. His own Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Clara, I still want to go on that date with you.” He cleared his throat to conceal the roughness of his voice. Changing the subject was easier than the current conversation. 

She whispered, “Why?”

“It’s important to you. I’ll be over this flu by tomorrow. Why not do it then? And I prefer a later reservation to an early one. It will be quieter. When does the restaurant close?”

“Nine o’clock on Sundays.”

On TV, Godzilla’s distinctive bell-like roar shot across the silence.

The Doctor said, “Then let’s go at eight.”

He felt her cheek round against his neck. She was smiling. Joy bloomed somewhere between his hearts. Her happiness became his happiness.

“Stay here another night and it’s a deal.”

Coughing cut him off before he could agree. This round wasn’t relenting. The Doctor scooted away from Clara and covered his mouth with a tissue. A couple of tears escaped his eyes and he blamed them on coughing so hard. Clara patted his back while he hacked up enough nastiness to gross out an army.

“Ugh.” He wadded up the soiled tissue inside a second clean one and absentmindedly offered it to Clara. “Could you...?”

Clara’s face went slightly green. She wrapped the tissue ball inside yet another tissue and rushed into the kitchen to toss it in the trash. The sink hissed as she washed her hands. She splashed water on her face, too. Then she picked up her phone.

“Yes, hello, I had a reservation that I wasn’t able to keep last night. I would like to make a new one for eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

On TV, Godzilla lumbered back out to sea and the image panned out to show a giant rose in orbit above planet Earth. 

The Doctor finished off everything edible on the tray while the movie credits rolled. He slipped his sonic sunglasses on to track where Clara’s phone signal had connected to. Ah, that new Italian restaurant-slash-bar-slash nightclub,  _Peppini’s_. Right within walking distance. Running a Google search let him find the restaurant online. 

He smiled slyly and began composing an email. And then, seeing Clara’s back still turned, he crept off the couch. He’d tip-toed halfway down the hall when...

“Ahem,” Clara came up behind him, “Are you getting up to pee?”

“Not really. I don’t feel that sick now. I'm--” Dizziness made him wobble and lean on the wall, “--fine.”

“Couch, Doctor, now.” Clara pointed to the den. She arched an eyebrow at his sidelong look. “Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it to you.”

“But... _Clara_...”

“No ‘buts’ except yours on the couch. March, mister.” She came forward, grasped his upper arms and steered him back into the den. He protested through the entire walk of shame.

“I’m bored! How can anyone sit on a couch and stare at the telly all day? These hands are itching to work on something. This is, Clara, this is terminal boredom. It’s fatal!”

“That’s why you’re going to tell me what you want from the TARDIS and I’ll get them. You can work on them from the couch as well as anywhere else. Now c’mon,  _The Princess Bride_  is coming on next and I know you like to poke fun at historical inaccuracies.”

The Doctor begrudgingly reclaimed the couch. Clara made true to her promise. He obtained his Rubik’s cube, two Thomas Kinkade painting puzzles and his guitar. She drew a line at the amp, but that was all right because he just wanted to work on his fingering.

Part of his irritability came from craving the feel of the time vortex again. Watching time pass in the proper order felt somehow  _wrong_. The only bearable part of being sick was Clara’s company.

And for her sake, he kept his complaining to a minimum. One gripe every twenty minutes was the best he could do. He got hit with a pillow almost every single time. Pillow fights wasted a good few minutes. He started inciting them on purpose. They broke up the boredom and made Clara laugh. 

He really liked her laughter.

.o

Time Lords didn’t require much sleep. An hour or two was plenty-- however the Doctor’s recent illness ate up a lot of energy. Tucking in for a good four to five hours would do him a lot of favors.

By nightfall, he had no signs of illness other than the exhaustion of a body that won a microscopic war. He was so bone tired that he welcomed Clara’s soft bed like soil absorbing rain. Sleep nearly claimed him before Clara finished brushing her teeth.

"Hey,” Clara slid between the sheets with him, “Can I be the big spoon?”

“Mmh.” The Doctor sprawled himself across the center of the bed, being a nuisance on purpose. “We aren’t silverware, but...” He grinned roguishly, rolled onto his right side and quoted from the movie they watched earlier, “As you wish.”

Clara pressed herself against his back. She positioned her right arm between the pillow and his shoulder. Her left arm snaked under his left one until her hand lay against his chest. He cringed, anticipating the annoyance of breath in his ear, on his neck or ruffling his hair, but she somehow adjusted herself high enough to place her chin above his head. 

“Admit it, you enjoyed that movie.” 

“Any laughter was at the horrid historical inaccuracies.”

“You were beside yourself when Westley tumbled down that hill. I didn’t know you could laugh that hard. And why did you glance at my chest when he said there is a shortage of perfect breasts in the world?”

"You saw that?”

“Uhh-huh.”

“There was popcorn on your pajamas.”

“I wasn’t eating popcorn.”

“Inconceivable! I mean-- what are we talking about again?”

“You daft old man,” Clara snickered into his hair. 

The Doctor licked his lips in the darkness as he stroked the hand lying against his chest. 

“I’ll hold you while you sleep, love,” Clara murmured in his ear. Then she kissed the top of his head and nuzzled her cheek against his hair. A feeling he found greatly enjoyable.

"That will make you happy?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Mmhmm. Do you like it when I do this?”

He yawned again, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Yes.”

Their conversation ceased after that. Clara’s regular deep breathing indicated she’d fallen asleep. He lay awake a while longer simply to feel her. Then slumber claimed him, too.

They woke at the same time as morning sun poured into the window. During the night he’d rolled over to face her. Her glimmering brown eyes were the first thing he saw when he opened his own. 

“Hey.” She touched his face. “Oh...”

“Mm...what?”

A soft giggle bubbled in her throat, “Doctor, you have scruff.” 

The Doctor reached up, and sure enough his fingertips encountered the sandpaper of stubble. “I need a shave.”

“Ooh, so what’s your preferred method for shaving?”

He grinned sleepily, “Nothing is better than an old fashioned straight razor. I’ll shave later. Why deprive you of my scruff if you enjoy it?”

“You spoil me,” Clara snickered and rubbed her cheek against his, “I have scruff, too.”

“Do you?” His eyes searched her face for any signs of hair growth that didn’t belong.

She took his hand and placed it on her calf.  _Oh_. Right. He absently rubbed her calf, enjoying the sandpaper roughness on his fingertips.

“You know what, Clara?” The Doctor eased Clara’s leg out from under the covers where he could see it.

“What?”

“I think I need to eat this foot.” And he pretended he was about to actually do it.

“Doctor!” Clara squirmed with laughter when he blew a razz on the sole of her foot, “Don’t make me laugh when I have to pee! I just laundered these sheets!”

“Eugh, point taken.” He let go of her foot.

She gave his stubbly chin another playful rub with her fingertips and slipped out of bed. He scratched his unmentionables while she padded across the hall. The toilet flushed, the sink ran and then the shower squeaked on after the toilet stopped running. 

Hearing the shower hiss made him hate that bodies produced waste. 

“Clara,” he rapped on the door, “I need to use loo!” No answer at first. He knocked again and pondered a dash into the TARDIS. “Clara?”

“Go ahead! Just don’t flush it, I don’t want to freeze.”

Grateful, he rushed in and did his business. The dye in the Gatorade turned it purple. Bright purple. Fluorescent purple! 

 _Every human on this planet must have kidneys like rainbows_ , he mused to himself. His eyebrows curled in a frown,  _I’m going to file a complaint if my poo comes out purple, I swear!_  

Being so lost in his thoughts meant he forgot a most important thing. He let his nightshirt fall to his ankles and flushed the toilet. The noise of the shower cut in half.

“Argh! Doctor!” Clara squeaked.

“Sorry!” The Doctor cringed while washing his hands, “Habit.”

Clara’s blurry shape moved behind the clear shower curtain. She was shaving her legs. 

“Oh, you can make a habit of flushing, but not putting the seat down?”

“I leave the seat up on purpose. And by the way, I need a shower, too. How about I join you? It isn’t like we never saw each other naked before.”

“Fine with me. It’ll save some water, too.”

Nodding, the Doctor took the chalk out of his nightshirt pocket, undid the first twelve snaps and pulled the garment over his head. He absentmindedly dumped it into Clara’s clothes hamper. His No Gloom ’Shroom found a home atop the box of chalk.

Steam began clouding the bathroom mirror. Clara was on the side of the shower furthest from the spray, so the Doctor shifted the plastic curtain enough to quickly get in at the opposite end. Cold air followed him anyway. It felt a little like stepping inside another dimension. One where he and Clara were clear while the rest of the world looked blurry.

Clara took her showers at exactly the same temperatures he liked his. Hot enough to release steam without scalding. He stood under the spray so the water slicked his hair backwards and turned around to let it beat against the back of his neck.

Showers were a sensory minefield. The Doctor preferred to get in, wash and get out as quick as possible. There was a routine to it, one he followed always. He swiped the soap off the dish in the corner and got busy. Washing happened from the top down with the exception of his hair, which he liked to do last. He set about it and got his whole body washed and rinsed in record speed.

Clara’s positioning blocked access to the shampoo and conditioner. The sight of the pink razor gliding up the length of her legs captured the Doctor’s attention. She made it look so graceful, like the smoothest notes on his electric guitar. Her wet hair fell over her shoulder in messy ribbons of brown that stopped just shy of her left breast.

There honestly  _was_  a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. Clara had a nice pair that matched the rest of her body. And her inverted nipples? Hardly an issue to him. They added charm!

Then she noticed him admiring her. Her cheeks flushed dark red when she grinned. “I’m almost done.” And upon finishing, she swiped the shampoo before he could.

“Clara-a-a-a...” He drew her name out while trying to reach behind her for the shampoo.

“You said you like it when I run my fingers through your hair.” She dodged him, her voice husky.

“Yes...what does that have to do with a shower?”

She tapped the edge of the tub closest to the wall. It had a flat area that formed a sort of bench. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to wash your hair.”

Nobody had washed his hair since he was a child. He eased himself down, nervous. “Don’t let the shampoo run into my eyes.”

“I won’t.”

Click went the shampoo bottle. The Doctor inhaled and shut his eyes, anticipating a horrific sting. He heard the bottle being set aside. Peach scents wafted around the bathroom. Clara's weight settled onto his lap. He startled at the first touch on the crown of his head and relaxed once he realized she poured the shampoo into her hand first. In a few smooth swipes she spread the cool liquid through his hair without letting a single drop touch his forehead. She was in full control. 

“There, see? I’m keeping it well away from your eyes.”

He felt safe enough to open them and look up at her. She was admiring him like he admired her moments ago.

“It’s cute when you blush.”

“Not many people can do that to me.”

“Good.”

Clara’s hands went into motion. It began like a massage that warmed him to her touch. She did it until foam sloshed audibly with her movements. Then her fingernails raked along his scalp. Front to back, side to side, zig zags and circles. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. 

He often self-soothed by scratching at, grabbing or rubbing his hair. But he could predict where his hands were going and he got sensory feedback both from his scalp and in his fingers. Having someone else touching his hair the same way he did changed the experience completely. 

Luxurious, tingling heat spread throughout his entire body. She was taking his breath away. All of reality focused solely on the simple sensual experience. 

“Oh...oh...” Soft moans escaped him of their own accord. The tingling rapidly encapsulated the tip of another, rapidly rising body part. His hands found their way to her thighs. He craned his neck to push his head against her fingers even more. 

“You like that, Doctor?” Clara whispered in his ear.

The Doctor bit his lip and glanced down. She followed his gaze to the effect that had on him. He arched a bushy eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Blushing honestly looked wonderful on her. “You didn’t tell me washing your hair turned you on.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then what’s pointing at me?”

“ _You_  washed my hair.”

“Hm.” 

A mischievous gleam glimmered in her eyes. She gave him another long, delicious scrub and leaned in to place slow, deliberate kisses at regular intervals across his collarbones, neck and scruffy jaw. They were fantastic little islands in the sea of sensation created by her fingers in his hair. More importantly, the regularity made  _sense_  to his nervous system. Every single kiss raised his excitement to nearly unbearable levels.

He started kneading her thighs without realizing it. “Oh...”

“Time to rinse,” Clara said when her lips reached his ear, “Head back.” 

She adjusted the mobile shower head to a gentler setting and slowly rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. Tingles raced up his spine as suds oozed down his back. She gave him goosebumps!

“Clara,” gasped the Doctor, “I need to kiss you.”

Clara shut the water off. She shot him a smoldering look and parted her lips. “So do it.”

He grabbed the nape of her neck, pulled her close and kissed her full on the mouth. Bang went the shower head she wasn’t holding anymore. She bit his lips, and he sucked on hers. The smell of her arousal joined the shampoo and soap. Her hands held onto his shoulders tight enough to hurt. And he liked that.

“I want you inside me,” Clara gasped between lip locks.

 _Why does she-- oh_.

“Mm...” The Doctor mopped a line of water drops off her shoulder with his lips. Her wet skin felt amazing against his mouth. He followed the curve of her throat to her ear and retraced his path back to its beginning. Up and down, very slowly, hyper aware of her deeper breathing. His hands went into motion next by gliding on the curve of her spine to squeeze her bottom. Clara Oswald had an amazing body as far as he was concerned.

“Clara,” he murmured her name like a promise.

Tension pulled the skin on her throat taut. Her fingers raked deliciously across his chest and drew a curving pattern ending just behind his ears. Could she feel his blood roaring for her?

“I thought people made love after dates.” He exhaled as he caressed her left breast, then her right, “We’re having dessert before dinner.” His mouth followed her left collarbone and detoured to her throbbing pulse. “Isn’t there a rule against that?”

Clara scratched the back of his head and sucked deliciously on his earlobe. “Since when did you follow the rules, Doctor?”

A bright grin spread across his face, turning his eyes into squinting, glimmering slits. He waggled his eyebrows up and down. “Good point.”

In a flurry of motion the Doctor reversed their position and pressed Clara’s back against the cool shower wall. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He squeezed her bottom again, harder than before. She did the same to his shoulder-blades. Finding her opening and guiding himself inside was easy because gravity made for a fine assistant. His eyes nearly rolled back at feeling her warm, tight wetness surround him where he ached most.

“The Doctor is  _in_ ,” he said through clenched teeth.

Clara cackled, “Diagnosis?”

“High arousal,” he kissed the tip of her nose and started thrusting, "and here is your treatment plan.”

They fell into each other amid the billowing steam. The forgotten shower head swung uselessly to and fro, its reflective chrome surface a silent witness to their passionate lovemaking.

.o

Amber street lights lit the sidewalk. Beneath one, a gray-haired, clean-shaven figure leaned against a bright blue police box.

Everything the Doctor read about dating said men were supposed to wait for a lady outside her home. So there he stood near Clara’s flat, dressed smartly in his suit. For him, only a mere hour had passed since the shared shower, but to Clara it was much longer.

He just couldn’t wait.

The Doctor checked his chalk pocket. Bank ATM’s were easy to hack, especially for an exact amount. He patted the cash roll and inhaled a nerve-calming whiff of chalk as the door on the building opened. Out stepped the woman whose taste hung on his lips and whose cries of pleasure still lingered in his ears.

Clara seemed taller than usual. Oh, high heeled shoes. Very shiny, pointy black high heels. His eyes followed her oddly dark legs upward to the hem of the dress resting exactly at mid-thigh. The matte black velour hugged Clara’s body like a living shadow. From the front it appeared innocent enough. Then she twirled to show off the teardrop-shaped cutout in the back. Sparkly black teardrop earrings dangled off her earlobes. Her lips were painted dark red and her eyes lined simply with black liner. She’d pinned her hair up into a tight bun.

“Your legs changed color,” the Doctor said, gesturing.

Clara approached him, hips swaying because of how heels changed her center of gravity. She slung a shiny black purse with a braided black and gold strap over her shoulder “I’m wearing black pantyhose, you silly old man.”

“Does the hole in the back of your dress feel cold?”

“Nope, not right now.”

“I...” The Doctor knew he was getting this wrong. He fished in his trousers pocket for the note cards and filed through them. Then he put them away after reading one silently to himself. “...I think you look smashing, Clara.”

Her smile put the moon to shame. “Thank you.”

“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.

She took it. They walked one block west. Orange lights above a red door indicated the restaurant entrance. Seeing the elaborate door handle told the Doctor this wasn’t a cheap place for teenagers to hang around all night. He pulled it open and held it for Clara like a proper gentleman before following her through.

They timed this perfect. Most tables were empty while people speckled the bar stools. An old-fashioned jukebox played music. The empty dance floor looked like polished black ice. Blacks, reds and golds seemed to be this restaurant’s color scheme. Recessed lights in the crown molding and the faux candle chandeliers over each table kept the overall illumination comfortably dim.

“Hi, I’m Clara. We had a reservation for eight o’clock,” Clara said to the portly male attendant at the counter. Behind her, the Doctor stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to look perfectly human.

“Would you like a table or booth?”

“Booth, please,” said the Doctor when Clara glanced at him.

Their waiter was a tall ginger woman who reminded the Doctor of Amy. Her curly red ringlets cascaded down her back like part of her black uniform. She introduced herself as Megan and she sounded very, very Irish.

“Right this way,” Megan led them through a maze of tables to a booth well away from the bar.

All booths had a black cloth lining with intricate red floral designs. Fine leather cushioning gave the curved seating around the rectangular black table the same comfort level as a couch. The Doctor wanted a booth to prevent anyone bumping him from behind and eliminate the distracting flicker of the TV sets behind the bar.

Megan took their drink orders once they sat down. The Doctor asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio and Clara chose Merlot. 

“Clara, why are you sitting way over there?” The Doctor asked upon seeing Clara perched across from him.

“Everybody sits across from each other when they eat out.”

“Why? To watch each other eat? What a rubbish tradition. Who wants to stare at somebody else while they’re eating? What if they chew with their mouth open?”

With that, he scooted so he faced straight out of the booth. Laughing, Clara joined him until they were side by side. They picked their menus up simultaneously. Now he felt his nerves beginning to kick in. Dates had social rules and he couldn’t remember half of them. He let his elbows rest on the table, concealed his No Gloom ‘Shroom with his hand and nibbled it.

“Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara,” he sighed under his breath.

“Feeling nervous?”

“How did you guess?”

“You’re jiggling your leg.”

He was.

“That’s why the call me Thumper,” said the Doctor. He unbuttoned his jacket to loosen it and sat up straighter. Finding the right words took a monumental effort, and they still didn’t come out how they sounded in his thoughts. “I'm sorry for scaring you the other night.”

“Doctor,” Clara leaned her shoulder on his, “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

He stopped biting his No Gloom ‘Shroom and tucked it back under his sleeve. “I want to make it up to you.”

“Oh? How?”

“Not telling.” He pressed his hands together and absentmindedly wiggled his fingers, “It’s a surprise.”

Their drinks arrived. He inhaled the scent of his wine before sipping. Nice and fruity without being overpowering. Megan returned a short while later to take their food orders.

“I’ll have the shrimp alfredo, but I want the pasta on one side, the shrimp on the other and the sauce all over both.”

That raised Megan’s eyebrows, however the next question she asked was, “And soup or salad?”

“Neither, please.”

Megan’s curly red ponytail bounced with her nod. She wrote it down and looked over at Clara.

“I would like the four cheese pasta bowl.”

“Soup or salad?”

“Soup, please. Clam chowder.”

“All rightey,” Megan kindly collected the menus and departed again.

The Doctor blinked at Clara hugging his upper arm.

“Feels nice to change it up a bit, doesn’t it?”

“Mm, a little disconcerting. I feel so  _alien_  here.”

“Funny, that’s how I feel when you take me out.”

He breathed the peach scent of her hair and laughed. “You know what? I never thought of it that way.”

Clara’s soup arrived. It looked like lumpy, creamy white stuff. She let go of his arm to stir and eat it. The nice scent swirled around the booth.

“What a bite?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, and mouthed the words ‘gag reflex’.

A faint nod indicated she understood. She ate quietly and neatly without slurping or spilling a single drop.

Their main course arrived shortly after Clara set her soup bowl aside. The Doctor’s came out exactly how he ordered it. Shrimp used to be utterly intolerable until Clara had him try it with alfredo sauce. Having it soaked in sauce helped cushion its spongy texture enough to get past his gag reflex. The noodles weren’t a problem at all. He just couldn’t handle them and shrimp at the same time.

It tasted  _delicious_. His taste buds luxuriated in the symphony of flavors that paired perfectly with his wine. 

“Mm, Clara,” he wanted to share this sensory experience with her, “bite?”

She glanced at his fork, leaned over and took the shrimp. “Mm! Mine? Nothing chunky, I promise.”

The Doctor chuckled at realizing her pasta was shaped like bow ties. Nostalgia washed over him. He bent to accept it at the same moment she raised the fork upward. The delicious morsel ended up in his mouth eventually.

“Oops!” Clara chortled and used her thumb to wipe the smeared sauce off his cheek while he chewed.

They ate the rest of their food in silence. Clara paid for their dinners with her credit card.

One by one the people at the bar trickled out. All the TV sets behind the bar were turned off. 

Clara noticed this and began gathering up her purse. The Doctor counted to three in his mind, took a silent breath and laid a hand on her wrist. 

“Clara, put your purse down and close your eyes.”

“The restaurant is closing.”

“Yes, for the public.”

Her curious look prompted him to raise his eyebrows in a silent plea. She closed her eyes, giggling. “What are you up to, you silly old man?”

“You’ll see.” 

He guided her out of the booth and onto the dance floor with such care that nary her tight skirt touched anything. Her forehead wrinkled slightly at the change in ground texture, however her eyes remained shut.

They were the only people in the restaurant besides Muziano, the bespectacled and very Italian-looking manager. He kindly switched on the spotlight above the dance floor before walking away out of sight.

The Doctor slid his sonic sunglasses on long enough to activate the jukebox and trigger the spotlight to follow him and Clara wherever they moved. 

 _Unchained Melody_  by the Righteous Brothers began to play, its music unpolluted by other peoples’ voices or the television sets behind the bar. 

Both his hearts pounded while he put his shades away and positioned himself so the raw emotion in his eyes would be the first thing Clara saw. Her earrings sparkled like stars. The fine hairs on her skin created a white outline around her face and neck. She looked stunning standing beneath that light beam. How silly, envying photons...yet right then he wished he was one of them.

Touching her velour sleeve proved she was real to him. He took her right hand in his left, slipped his right arm around her waist and began swaying her to the beat. 

“You can look now.”

That sweet ‘I knew it’ smile appeared on her lips just before her big brown eyes opened to fix on his. Such love-- now that he recognized what her ‘I love you’ expression looked like, he could easily see it. The eye-contact grew too intense for him, so he focused on her upper eyelids without changing his expression.

“What are you thinking right this second?” asked the Doctor as he swayed her in a gentle circle.

“I’m not,” Clara replied, easily following his movements, “I’m feeling.”

“What are you feeling?”

She squeezed his hand. “The music. The rhythm. The way we’re moving. How I feel about you.”

A smile lit his features under the brilliant spotlight. He let his forehead briefly touch hers. 

“ _This_  is what I was experiencing the other night, Clara.”

Clara’s eyes drifted shut. She moved cheek to cheek with him. Her free hand slid upward until her fingertips buried themselves in his gray hair. She was grinning from ear to ear, too.

The Doctor rubbed his fingertips up and down her side, enjoying both the fabric and the woman inhabiting it. He breathed in her peach scent while relishing the softness of her cheek pressed to his. Everything he felt for her surged down his spine. His excitement caused him to sway a little more fiercely to the beat.

“This is more than explaining what stimming is.” He led her through a twirl and she moved right with him when he took a few quick, sweeping steps to match the song’s growing intensity. “...I wanted to do a boyfriend thing. This is how I’m making up for Friday.”

“Well, it’s working,” Clara pulled her hand free of his and linked her fingers together on the back of his neck. “Here comes the best part of the song.” Her breath tickled his lips, “Kiss me, Doctor. Right now.”

Everything in the universe funneled down to this moment. The Doctor swallowed over the lump in his throat. There it was, the buildup of drums and voices. He experienced it in the pit of his stomach like all the mass in the TARDIS suddenly appeared inside him. It rose up, a wave of emotion cresting behind his lips, begging for release.

_“And time goes by so slowly,_  
_and time can do so much._  
_Are you still mine?”_

He tilted his head and kissed her tenderly at the song’s climax. A kiss driven not by lust, but by love, passion and affection. Everything he was, had been and would be went into it as their lips shimmered beneath the brilliant spotlight shining on their faces. 

Nothing in all of time and space could touch this perfect moment. Its existence sprang into being like a fixed point left untouched by the ravages of the universe’s expansion.  
  
_“I NEED your love!_  
_I need your love!_  
_God speed your love to me!”_

Silence followed the song’s conclusion. The Doctor drew back to see the look on Clara’s face. Tears were welling in her eyes. Brief panic overtook him-- that wasn’t what he expected!

“Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” she sniffed, “You did something exactly  _right_. I’m happy right now.”

“You’re crying and you say you’re happy...are you--” He stopped himself before he asked if she was malfunctioning. That wouldn’t be the right note to end such a night on, so he asked, “Do you have that ‘I’m going to cry’ pain in your throat right now?”

Clara nodded twice, emphatically, “That’s why I’m crying. This is a good sort of crying, Doctor.”

“Ahh,” the Doctor filed that away even though it still confused him a little. 

She gave him a hug that could double as a choke hold if she really wanted it to. He let her squeeze the air right out of his lungs and returned the embrace a bit more gently.

“Listen, there’s something I need to do. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Okay. I’ll grab my purse and wait by the front door.” But before she went, she cupped his cheek in her palm and held his gaze for another moment. He didn’t move until she did.

The Doctor’s hearts were still pounding as he padded into the kitchen where staff worked busily to clean up. He was so giddy his hands shook! 

Muziano’s office wasn’t hard to find-- the Doctor spotted a glittery pink plastic moose figurine on the edge of a desk just visible through an ajar door. What a ghastly little trinket! And there was Muziano, snickering at pictures of Transformers on Tumblr. The character responsible for his amusement had a purple, green and gray color scheme with tank treads on its shoulders and a weird set of pincers curving off the sides of its head like a mechanical stag beetle.

 _Hm, Transformers, doesn’t that franchise have more incarnations than me?_  He mused to himself. 

“Excuse me,” the Doctor rapped on the door frame.

“Oh! Hey! Have a nice dance?” Muziano looked Italian, but he spoke with a very American accent. Southern California, to be exact.

“It went all right. So,” Just to make conversation, he gestured at the screen, “Optimus Prime?”

Muziano chuckled, “Nope. Megatron, from  _Armada_.”

“Oh. yeah, yeah, I forgot. Optimus Prme is always red and blue, right? It’s impossible to keep track of the franchise. Have you seen the eighth movie yet?”

“There’s only four.”

 _Whoops_.

“Oh? I guess I’m confusing the shows and the films.” The last part came out in a mutter, “The franchise changes more often than I change my face.”

“Uh...huh,” Muziano shot him a quizzical look, “What was the last part? Sorry, your accent’s kinda thick.”

“Nothing. Here.” The Doctor took the wad of money from his jacket pocket and laid it on Muziano’s desk. Right next to that eyesore of a pink moose. “As promised.”

Actually, he gave twice that, but Muziano wouldn’t know it until he counted the cash. No payment seemed enough to match the level of feeling he got to experience, and for it he would be forever grateful.

“Thanks, man!” The young manager pocketed the cash, “So, what’s her name?” 

“Clara.”

Muziano pushed his black framed glasses up on his nose with a knowing grin. “You really love her.”

A momentary frown creased the Doctor’s brow. “How can you tell that when you just met me?”

“Your eyes changed as soon as you said her name. Betcha hers do the same thing when she says yours. Er, what’s yours anyway?”

“Everyone calls me the Doctor.”

“Doctor  _who?_ ”

The Doctor started to answer, but Muziano’s cell phone made a loud kissing noise. Muziano checked the screen. It simply said  _Ross_. His tired face lit up like he drank ten coffees. 

“Boyfriend calling. I need to take this.”

 _Kids these days_. 

“Enjoy your robots. Good night.” The Doctor dipped his head politely and exited the office. Clara waited just inside the main entrance of the restaurant.

“Sorry, needed the restroom. I have the kidneys of a teenager. Must be the wine. So, shall we?” He pulled the door open. The icy breeze blasted in so suddenly he expected to hear Idina Menzel start belting  _Let It Go_.

“Ack!” Clara rocked on her feet and hugged herself. She stepped bravely outside only to pause and press her legs together. Clearly she misjudged her clothing’s ability to ward off the cold.

That silly commercial from earlier flashed across the Doctor’s memory. Such a boyfriend thing to do. He transferred the chalk, sonic sunglasses and psychic paper from his jacket pocket to his trousers pocket, shrugged his jacket off and draped it over Clara’s shoulders. Cold didn’t affect him as long as he wasn’t feverish, so he stayed quite comfortable in his dress shirt and waistcoat.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders while she held the jacket closed from inside. She looked like a child trying on her father’s clothing. The comical image made him chuckle softly while they walked the short distance to her flat.

“I had a great time,” Clara said once they stood on her doorstep. “It’s funny...I’m glad we got to do something together that didn’t involve running away from aliens.”

“It  _was_  a change of pace.” The Doctor raised both eyebrows, “Thank you for taking me out, Clara. And thank you for helping me through that flu.” 

“You’re welcome...for both.” She was looking into his eyes with the expression that said  _I love you_. He felt his face shift to reciprocate it.

Maybe getting so sick became a blessing in disguise. He got forty-eight solid hours with her instead of a mere four or five. Forty-eight hours without running or making life-and-death decisions. Forty-eight hours of her hands, her voice and her presence capped off in a fantastic date. He was the luckiest bloke alive.

“I need to get in. School tomorrow,” Clara said, waking him from his thoughts. She moved to shrug his jacket off. He stopped her.

“It’s too windy to take it off now. You’ll get a chill. Keep the jacket for now. I’ll retrieve it when I come back on Wednesday.” 

“What about your--”

“I have everything here.” He patted his trousers pocket. “So...see you later?”

“Mmhmm. Same time, same place.”

They exchanged a long good-night kiss, turned away from each other and entered the doors of their prospective dwellings.

Once inside the TARDIS, the Doctor suddenly remembered why his previous incarnation loved celebratory twirls. He got to the external monitor just in time to watch Clara take her heels off and jump up and down excitedly inside her doorway. His jacket sleeves flopped around her like ridiculous black wings. Her door swung shut. That bouncy jig probably continued all the way down the hall to her bedroom.

He leaned back against the console, his eyes bright. God, he loved that woman.

The Doctor allowed himself another twirl as he released the TARDIS locking mechanism. Emotion flooded through him again at hearing the grind of the central dimensional stabilizers. No way to channel it except through his guitar, so he turned the amp on and slung the strap over his shoulder. He needed something energetic with a lot of movement. 

Like magic, the right song came to him via the noise of the TARDIS itself. He stuck the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom into the corner of his mouth and bit down. It helped him focus when he began strumming.

And for awhile, the time vortex echoed with riffs from AC/DC’s  _Thunderstruck_.

.o -END- o.

**Author's Note:**

> Thunderstruck: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtOpP4QJa9k>
> 
> Muziano, known as Moosey online, was an online friend who died of cancer in 2013. He only got a glimpse of Twelve when Eleven regenerated in the Christmas special. I was missing Moosey while writing, so I wrote him into the story as a little tribute. Miss ya, Moosey!
> 
> Since credit should go where it is due, the shower scene was totally inspired by [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5068972).
> 
> In closing, I really hope this story shows why autistic functioning labels like high/low functioning or mild/severe are offensive, dehumanizing and harmful. There aren’t two types of autism or different levels on the spectrum-- it’s all the same neurotype and the single difference is the visibility and distribution of each individual’s symptoms. Using high functioning/mild erases a person’s very real struggles because they are seen as “quirky, socially awkward and almost normal”, and using low functioning/severe erases a person’s dignity because they are seen as “incompetent, problem behaviors and not-people”. These judgments are always made by non-autistic people who observe the autistic person from the outside, and they have absolutely NO bearing on that person’s intelligence, agency or competence.


End file.
